Books like Dinosaurs on Other Planets — picked by fans

After writing two expansive novels—The Edge of the World, about lives spanning six decades, and Liberty Landing, a contemporary novel rooted in the arc of American history—I found myself drawn to something smaller. Not smaller in meaning or scope, but in form. I wanted to experiment with the art of compression in storytelling. I was inspired by a microfiction written by novelist Joyce Carol Oates—The Widow’s First Year, which reads: “I kept myself alive.” Eight words. A complete universe of sorrow, endurance, resilience, and time. It stunned me. As I began to write Small Worlds, I was compelled to study fast fiction with the sharpest forensic tools.

After writing two expansive novels—The Edge of the World, about lives spanning six decades, and Liberty Landing, a contemporary novel rooted in the arc of American history—I found myself drawn to something smaller. Not smaller in meaning or scope, but in form. I wanted to experiment with the art of compression in storytelling. I was inspired by a microfiction written by novelist Joyce Carol Oates—The Widow’s First Year, which reads: “I kept myself alive.” Eight words. A complete universe of sorrow, endurance, resilience, and time. It stunned me. As I began to write Small Worlds, I was compelled to study fast fiction with the sharpest forensic tools.

After writing two expansive novels—The Edge of the World, about lives spanning six decades, and Liberty Landing, a contemporary novel rooted in the arc of American history—I found myself drawn to something smaller. Not smaller in meaning or scope, but in form. I wanted to experiment with the art of compression in storytelling. I was inspired by a microfiction written by novelist Joyce Carol Oates—The Widow’s First Year, which reads: “I kept myself alive.” Eight words. A complete universe of sorrow, endurance, resilience, and time. It stunned me. As I began to write Small Worlds, I was compelled to study fast fiction with the sharpest forensic tools.

After writing two expansive novels—The Edge of the World, about lives spanning six decades, and Liberty Landing, a contemporary novel rooted in the arc of American history—I found myself drawn to something smaller. Not smaller in meaning or scope, but in form. I wanted to experiment with the art of compression in storytelling. I was inspired by a microfiction written by novelist Joyce Carol Oates—The Widow’s First Year, which reads: “I kept myself alive.” Eight words. A complete universe of sorrow, endurance, resilience, and time. It stunned me. As I began to write Small Worlds, I was compelled to study fast fiction with the sharpest forensic tools.

Long before becoming an author and awarded science teacher, I was a child who explored the unpaved colonial roads in rural New Hampshire and brought home bucket loads of tadpoles, frogs, and turtles from nearby wetlands. I knew the rock walls that lined those roads had been placed by others who’d worked the land long before. My curiosity extended to wondering what the area had been like before humans started changing things. In retrospect, perhaps I wrote Chicken Frank, Dinosaur! in part for that backwoods girl full of questions about the world around her. Equally so, it’s for every curious child—even those who aren’t sure about dipping their toes into the mud just yet. Enjoy!

Dougal Dixon graduated from the University of St. Andrews with two degrees in geology. But although his education was entirely scientific his background was deeply artistic – a potentially unemployable combination back in the ‘70s. And so he ended up in publishing, as the Earth Science editor for an illustrated encyclopedia publisher. Since then he has become a full-time writer, specializing in geological articles for encyclopedias, handbooks on fossil collecting, and principally children’s books on dinosaurs. As well as that he has done a number of books on speculative evolution – exploring the principles of biology in novel ways.

When I was a kid growing up in Vancouver my parents had a collection of books arranged on shelves around the living room. The only one I remember taking down and actually reading was an early history of the city. I recalled being impressed by the simple fact that someone had thought my hometown was interesting enough to write about, not something that was self-evident to a cocky teenager. Many years later, some two dozen books of my own under my belt, I decided maybe I’d earned the right to take a crack at the city myself.

When I was a kid growing up in Vancouver my parents had a collection of books arranged on shelves around the living room. The only one I remember taking down and actually reading was an early history of the city. I recalled being impressed by the simple fact that someone had thought my hometown was interesting enough to write about, not something that was self-evident to a cocky teenager. Many years later, some two dozen books of my own under my belt, I decided maybe I’d earned the right to take a crack at the city myself.

Why Vancouver? Yes, it's my hometown, but I've lived in other places for about 20 years of my life, and I'm anything but a thoughtless booster. Vancouver is a beautiful city, but it's a conflicted one between dreamers of its potential greatness, people wanting a laid-back West Coast lifestyle, and those for whom it's the end of the poverty road with the mildest climate in Canada. Thinking about it, painting it, and writing about it—it's an itch I have to scratch.

I have written two short story collections and am working on a third. I have been passionate about short stories for as long as I have been a reader, and continue to find the form extraordinary. Alice Munro famously defined a short story as a house you can step inside rather than a journey you undertake. I feel that a short story is a respectful invitation to the reader to visit briefly and enjoy a small interlude on the way to wherever they are going.